


Dreamscapes

by handahbear



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handahbear/pseuds/handahbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights Grantaire dreams. He dreams, and wishes he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamscapes

Some nights, he wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, barely able to breathe. Some nights, he wakes up with tears drying on his face and an unreleased scream in his throat. It does not happen every night, but it happens enough.

Sometimes the dreams repeat themselves. It doesn’t matter. The end result is always the same.

Tonight, there is gunfire. Shots ring out. He is hiding in a small room, though he has no idea where, exactly, he is. He feels as though he has been sleeping; his head is heavy and his mouth tastes of sour grapes, as if he had recently been imbibing copious quantities of low-quality wine. Struggling to his feet, he scans the room. A man is barricading himself in the corner, tipping over a table and chairs in front of himself in order to form a makeshift, desperate blockade against himself and whatever, whoever, is coming. Grantaire squints, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Enjolras. Of course.

Men tramping into the room, heavy boots pounding on the wooden floors. Guns pointed at Enjolras, his Enjolras, who looks down upon them with a haughty expression. Even the face of Death does not diminish his fire. The men raise their rifles, preparing to fire. Grantaire surges forward, a cry escaping his lips. They turn, surprised. Making his way across the room, he stands slightly in front of Enjolras. Deep down inside of him, he knows that he is going to die, that Enjolras is going to die as well, but if he is dying now, he will die with Enjolras. He takes his hand.

The shots ring out. Grantaire falls to the ground, feeling the phantom pressure of Enjolras’s hand in his own. There is blood, so much blood, and Grantaire can feel himself slipping away. He looks up, up at Enjolras, who is practically nailed to the wall with bullets. He closes his eyes, fading away.

Grantaire wakes up, eyes opening wide and gasping for breath. He turns, desperate, needing to see Enjolras, to feel that he was still there. Enjolras slept on peacefully, undisturbed for once by Grantaire’s terror. It was, after all, just a dream. Sighing, he lays back down, secretly pleased that he will not have to share this with Enjolras. He doesn’t know how many more times he can describe to him the various ways in which they’ve died. 

This is, perhaps, the worst. There have been others, of course. There had been the dream set in what he thought was the 1940s, in which he and Enjolras had been hidden in a darkened room as air raid sirens sliced through the night when suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and then nothingness; the dream set in a war that he could not name, in which he and Enjolras had fought on opposite sides, seeing each other’s faces only as they stabbed their bayonets into each other’s hearts; the dream where they had been torn from each other’s arms, a gun pressed to their heads, trying desperately to keep hold of each other’s hands and when they refused to let go, the last thing they saw were each other’s desperate eyes. 

Grantaire could not shake the feeling in the moments after he woke that these things had been real, that these things had actually occurred, and he would not have been surprised to find a gaping wound somewhere on his body. His hands moved, unbidden, to the sight of the fatal wound. But there was never any blood, never any physical pain; it was, after all, only a dream. Or so he told himself.


End file.
